


Lovelorn, to yearn for something you can't have, la douleur exquise

by milkymiku



Category: Friday Night Funkin' (Video Game), Pico's School (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Insomnia, Eventual Fluff, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, but not what you would think, but who knows, he has schizophrenia, kind of one-sided, kind of ooc, maybe comfort later, more characters to be added later perhaps, more for myself honestly, pico calls BF blue, pico needs mental help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29578902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkymiku/pseuds/milkymiku
Summary: "So i just have to kill him," The ginger grappled the UZI's handle with his fingers a couple of times. "Doesn't matter how I do it." The smooth metal is cool against his practiced hands."Yes. I'm counting on you," A deep voice booms from the other end of the phone. They hang up."Alright," He twirls the mechanical weapon a couple of times, throwing it in the air before catching it perfectly. A grin stretches across his face. This ought to be interesting.Or Pico is hired by a certain father to kill a certain blue-haired boy who he may or may not know.
Relationships: Boyfriend (Friday Night Funkin') & Pico (Pico's School), Boyfriend (Friday Night Funkin')/Pico (Pico's School), Boyfriend/Girlfriend (Friday Night Funkin')
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79





	1. A task

**Author's Note:**

> uh yeah hope you enjoy...somewhat. I apologize for the shortness but I swear the chapters will get longer...and it's like 2 am on a school night i have to sleep haha.

The slight buzz of the TV fills the mess of a room, could you even call it a room? He’s annoyed, to say the least. The shiny box sounds more like static when he’s supposed to be having quality entertainment, supposed to laugh until he can’t breathe. Needless to say, it’s definitely not working, but not that it’s new news. He curses under his breath, rolling his head to stare at the ceiling with a groan.  
  
The windows are shut tight, curtains and blinds closed to their fullest capacity, but the expanse is just so terribly loud. The disheveled room is fairly cold, Pico’s only warmth coming from his layered shirts that just happen to be his favorite, for no daunting reason. Thoughts wandering, the redhead grimaces, turning around on the couch a couple of times.  
The maroon door that had brown swirls mended carefully inside, mother nature sure was kind to this mere appliance, stood locked to show off it’s secureness. It only works so well, and that’s why a certain young man carries a particular instrument everywhere, on him at all times, but he has many other understandable reasons too.  
  


Clothes are piled around, the tiny whir of the fridge in the corner is audible, everything was just awful today----but when is it not, really? Pico’s wonder of a pair of eyes scan the dwelling, the sagacity of his whole being very high, or at least he’d think so, acute ears perking at the slightest sound that wasn’t from the cubed object by the wall.  
  
Footsteps. Small footsteps. Shuffling.  
  
The sound of metal.

Almost if by, and it must be, muscle memory, the ginger’s finger pulls at the trigger swiftly and effortlessly, such a repeated familiar action, it brought a sense of comfort if only for a moment. The ricochet of gunshots, not uncommon at all, perhaps that’s the reason why the neighbours moved out. Good for them! Pico’s much more happy without them around. Slight smoke steams from the tool in his right hand, and he blows it out softly.  
  
Peering over from where he is seated, he can see the faint outline of a carcass that belongs to none other than a sewer rat---next to the outlines of freshly made holes in the wooden floorboards covered with carpet. How disgusting…The faintest wisp of a twisted smirk situates itself atop the redhead’s face as he nudged the body with the barrel.  
“Serves you right, you little bastard,” Dusting his scarred and worn out hands together, he lets himself fall back onto the couch, head tilted upwards once more. Incidentally, in the same moment his body hits the plush material that really isn’t that soft and doesn’t deserve to be called a couch Pico thinks, the phone rings. His vocal cords produce a sound of protest as he sluggishly gets back up on his two feet, how tiring.  
  
“Hel-”

“I have a job for you.” The voice pierces through the speaker, and almost seems to have some kind of chime to it, but maybe Pico’s just delusional. He’s been told that so many times it might even be true. Might. One of his eyebrows quirk up charmingly, a mix of skepticism and curiosity.

“And?” He rolls his eyes, but the news of a task, something to keep him busy is almost joy bringing. Gun slack in hand, he rolls it around a couple of times before abruptly flicking the hilt up. Bang! He doesn’t care that he’s on a call right now, could care less as his eyes follow the frizzled form of what was once called a moth. It flops to the floor pathetically, earning a snort from the ginger.

“I need you to kill…” Spoken words blur together and mesh into gibberish that Pico can’t ever _dream_ to understand, and he lets out a tiny hiss of annoyance.  
“Yeah, yeah, just send me the goddamn details already, grandpa,” A string of insults follow through right after his statement, curses thrown around here and there. More talking ensues, and Pico realizes he should be listening more closely, so he reluctantly pulls the phone closer to his ear with his free hand, being the left.

"So i just have to kill him," The ginger grappled the UZI's handle with his fingers a couple of times. "Doesn't matter how I do it." The smooth metal is cool against his practiced hands.

"Yes. I'm counting on you," A deep voice booms from the other end of the phone. They hang up.

"Alright," He twirls the mechanical weapon a couple of times, throwing it in the air before catching it perfectly. A grin stretches across his face. This ought to be interesting... Kicking his legs out to rest on top of the arm rest, he lays the back of his head against his hands.

____________________________________

The day of long awaited arrival is here and Pico cannot be more happier, he just wants to get this over with and maybe order some takeout later. It would be definitely more safer than the time he almost burnt _and_ shot the apartment down. It’s colder today, evident with how he takes one step out just to be blasted with chilly air. He’s relieved to have his layered shirt that always seemed to provide in times of need, for instance, offering warmth when he needs it right now...but of course, there is no _daunting_ reason why it’s his favorite. It just is.  
His feet thud against the shabby flooring, not bothering with the crinkled covers and scattered pillow. He doesn’t need to grab his gun as it is already in his right hand, presumably, and safe to infer, the redhead slept with it like other nights.

The person over the phone told him his supposed target would be at the subway railway once the sun enlightened the world with its superior knowledge of noon, meaning Pico had some time to himself. He hadn’t made anything to eat, not that he could, and instead spent the time you would regularly dine on pancakes by shining his UZI, upholding it’s pristine quality. He decided he would wait for his prey that was to be dressed in a white shirt adorned with a blaring red prohibition sign---which frankly, Pico found dorky, baggy blue pants Pico thought of as equally stupid, even when his own pants differed measely, and to top it all off, a blocky red cap worn backwards. How quaint.  
  
A sound. 

He turns on his heel towards the direction. 

Wasn’t it a bit early? He can hear voices…voices? Isn’t there only supposed to be one person here? Did the old geezer lie to him?  
Oh, god dammit all to hell, he’d kill both of them as a treat, you never know, he could get a bonus prize. 

“This looks like a nice place,” A familiar voice cooes, and Pico freezes. Every muscle in his body stops functioning. It sounds melodious and lyrical, despite being a higher pitch than average. 

“Yup!” A female voice chirps, and the ginger picks up on the clacking of heels as well as the drop of some kind of apparatus.  
  
He feels his legs moving on their own, eyes widening, arms pulling him away from the corner to peer out at the pair who…

He...he recognizes one of them painfully. He was hoping it wouldn’t be, but it is.

“You?” 

His voice almost cracks, but he holds it in impressively. The redhead’s features and face betrays him though, a look of disbelief, distraught even. He watches the other male turn to face him, as if in slow motion, the slowest setting possible. Agonizing. The spiky blue hair that seems all too nostalgic, shifts as he now faces...well.  
  
He gasps breathily in a moment of weakness, he’s painfully aware of the way his beloved UZI slips out of his grip, the excruciating breath of air his lungs take in.  
  
“Huh?” Honey. Caramel. Whatever shitty names you can come up with, it works well. Almost too well. His voice, anyway. He hasn’t heard it for…years. Is he dreaming? He thought---he thought, really thought, this mystifying enigma in front of him, was dead. Cold, lifeless, no pulse. He thought, really thought, that… 

In the incident he thought...  
  
He smiles, faint, so very faint, but a smile, how long has it been since he’s smiled like this? He thinks he might cry, but he’s no sucker for shit-shows, so he plasters a smirk on his face, body shifting into a relaxed confident pose, scooping up the fallen contraption, erasing all incoming memories and flashbacks. For the time being, that is.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” The redhead starts, avoiding eye contact with the cyan-haired boy, instead focusing on the girl next to him. He has a weird suspicion about her, the way her presence felt...he had a sinking proposition she was somehow connected to this mess, deeply. Not to mention the expression she is giving him, he can’t name it, can’t put a finger on it, and it bothers him to an unbearable degree. No words in his vocabulary, or perhaps the entirety of the english language can explain it. Maybe he’s exaggerating, but it’s how it feels, and it feels _real_.

He hopes they don’t notice the tips of his fingers tremble.  
  
“What do you---” the shorter male starts, but is cut off immediately. Pico’s heart trembles, thoughts teasing his fragile mental state of what he thinks was going to be said---

“Let’s get straight to the point,” His arms raise up, barrel of the gun pointed directly at the other’s head, in the middle of his forehead to be exact. 

“I was sent to kill you bastards,” Pico flicks his eyes finally over to quickly glance at---ah shit. Their eyes meet.  
  
Deep cerulean. Almost like liquid black ink mixed with sections of the ocean.

“You were---” Thankfully he turns to the girl and mutters something Pico can barely make out.  
  
_“Is.…because...your..….”_ Is all he can hear.

He can see the specks of surprise and...even perhaps in the slightest amount, tiny, almost not there at all, no, maybe Pico’s making it up, that’s what everyone tells him, but he thinks, for a moment he thinks, he sees fear.  
  
“But---” His mouth talks without the permission of his mind,“If you beat me in a...in a rap battle,” he decides, “I’ll let you off easy.” What the fuck was he doing? You’re not supposed to mix emotions with a job dumbass! Everyone knows that. But here he was, risking lots of things, for what? ...Nothing. That’s it. For fuck’s sake.

BF blinks, yes, his name. BF. It’s a little weird, but Pico isn’t one to judge. Maybe.  
“What?” He turns to the girl and she smiles, of relief, Pico assumes, patting his shoulder.  
  
“If you say so---Get ready to get your ass k-kicked!” It sounds rather cute, kind of like small beeps and boops along with how he’s pretending to be braver than he feels. Is it for...  
The air has changed quickly, Pico’s glad, but it’s fast, almost too fast, he thinks he might not be able to keep up.  
  
Does he---Does he not…  
  
The music starts up, prompted by the girl in red, a nice beat, easy. Pico really can’t do this right now, he tells himself he can, but he can’t. He keeps thinking about it, about the---the...the…  
  
“My baby gone for the night,” He’ll distract himself, “She probably gone for the night,” That’s what he’ll do.  
  
It ensues, the battle between them. 

A nice voice. That’s what he thinks. 

  
By no surprise, he loses. 

The music stops.  
Ah. Pico is tired, chest heaving from spitting out bars fast, why was he even trying to win? But alas, he still...still had fun, if you could call it that.  
  
“I win!” BF exclaims, peeking over at Pico.  
“sure,”  
“You know I did!”  
“Shut the fuck up…”  
“Hah...You don’t wanna admit it, do you?”  
  
He feels sick.  
  
“I told you to shut up,” Pico huffs, pointing his UZI at BF, making the other flinch. He can’t---all of this, he really can’t. It just...it just, what? Does it hurt? He doesn’t fucking know.  
  
“Uh-huh,”

Just stop talking.  
  
“This was fun, well, not the part with you pointing that thing at me, but we should definitely battle again! You’re great, y’know,”  
  
Oh god.  
  
“Just stop it…” Pico growls, turning to glare at both of them before dashing off. 

  
“What’s up with him?” BF tilts his head to the side.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
It hurts. His head hurts, his body hurts. Everything hurts. Pico hates it. How will he tell the issuer about what happened? This sucked ass.  
“Grah…” Pico shoves his face into his hands. In a weak voice, he speaks softly to himself, not conscious of his own saying.  
  
“Does he...he not remember?”  
  


  
  



	2. Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pico centric, basically he has some shit go down and has a gay dream. That's it lol also orginally this was supposed to be way longer but I cut it because it was taking so goddamn long to write ahhhh so i'll just throw the half that i didn't write into the other chapter

The off-set white mattress is remarkably stiff, making the male groan in annoyance as he lifts his right arm, as if to strike the cushioned material, only to drop it against the bed pathetically. He found no strength within, or will for that matter, to drag himself out of bed and make something to eat. How long has it been since he’s been lying here?  
It’s all a blur, he can’t comprehend anything that’s happening no matter how hard he tries, but at the same time, he is aware of everything. Every little agonizing detail in the room. It screams its importance out to him, but they’re all simple everyday objects. It rattles his confused brain, causing a throbbing headache that pounded against the insides of his skull, like a prisoner against the jail bars of a cold cell.

Pico can hear the hands of the clock tick with every second, the slight shuffling from the apartment next door, the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above, the subtle wind that blows against his windows. It’s annoying, frustrating, irritating, infuriating even. Why does everything seem so important, why does it seem to hold some secret? Why does it always feel like someone’s watching him---why does it always feel like something is going to jump out and attack him? His arm twitches, UZI ready in hand. Despite his muscles being flimsy and useless, Pico has no doubt in his mind that he won’t be able to pull it.  
  
Think, think, or maybe don’t think, that’d be especially nice. The redhead snorts, as if trying to make himself feel better, but to no avail. He hates his mind, the way it works, in its own maddening ways. He’s always thinking, maybe it doesn’t seem like it, but he truly most honestly is. He wishes, truly wishes, that there was a button he could press to stop the overflow. He’d hammer it to the ground, break it, shoot it multiple times, just to stop the horrendous surplus of thoughts. That’s how much he hates it...but that should be apparent already.  
  
Distract himself, oh, to distract himself---but with what? He rolls around the bed, blanket tossed to the floor---crumpled crudely, the end of his bedsheets rolling up due to the thrashing. Ah, it hurt, his head hurt, everything hurt. He didn’t want to think anymore!  
  
It’s hot, in the room it’s hot. He begins to pull off his green sweater in a hurry, sliding his arms out first before lifting the article of clothing above his head and throwing it to the left to land in god knows where, leaving his chest bare as the humid air sticks to his skin. He then proceeds to jump out of the bed, falling harshly onto the cushioned floor. The fingers of his free hand curl into a deadly fist, which was covered with old bandages from the knuckles down to the bottom of his wrist area. Lifting his left arm back with a light swing, he brings it down to pound at the ground, not caring for the expenses at the moment or for anything else really. He needs to let out his frustration and feelings without doing anything he deems and thinks to be stupid, like crying or “talking about it”. 

He doesn’t have anyone to talk about it to anyway, not that he would, or wants to! He, Darnell, and Nene haven’t been talking all that much lately, or maybe they have and Pico’s just been avoiding their texts on fiscoes...The app is great in the way that no one can tell when you’ve read a text or not, and that you can set your status as offline while having access to everything. But lately he’s just...well, not been in the right frame of mine, he guesses, for talking with them. They are kind of...excessive. Nene’s mood swings are tiring, and Darnell is way better than him at dealing with them as well as comforting her, and though Darnell is more on the chill side, he can go a bit overboard. Pico does feel a little bad for not being there, but he has his own shit to deal with he’d honestly just make it worse. Now that the redhead thinks about it, he used to be more like that...he’s not sure what’s changed. Maybe it’s all his...nightmares finally getting to him, although he wouldn’t call them nightmares.  
  
He continues to harm the poor floor with his already damaged fists.

It hurts more, or it should, but he can’t feel anything, or maybe perhaps a warm pool of liquid dripping from his hand as he pulls it up, that might be forming a tiny puddle near his elbow. It’s shiny and a deep rich color, his gray eyes unblinking while he gazes. Aha...He’s done it again.  
  
“Ah, fuck,” Pico flops onto his back, wiping the blood against his pants before returning the injured extension of his arm to his side as he laid there. This worked to some extent, he could do this. He could do this! He isn’t thinking about anything unecessa----ah shit. For fuck’s sake! He spoke too soon, or should he say thought? Thoughts, he hates those.  
  
His mind brings him to, none other than, BF.  
  
The guy he’s supposed to kill. The guy he knows. The guy who sings in a unique form, like a new art that only he knows the secret to. When he sings it’s like he’s producing small beeps, kind of like a robot, in a way? Although that would be playing down on the talent the blue-haired male held. It’s remarkable, he somehow makes it work, stringing the unusual vocal outputs in such a way it leaves you impressed. The ginger doesn’t remember him having this kind of gift when they were younger, but maybe it’s because he never bothered to pay attention. Pico, back then was, in a way, popular, or at least that’s what---  
  
Ah. He’s not supposed to think about that, not about the---

The---  
  


It’s there before he can stop it, _he’s_ there. 

The less than sterile gray walls with putrid green lockers lined up beside the stained floor, but most importantly the smell. He remembers it so well, the smell of just so much blood. It makes his nose scrunch up, and his knees feel weak, but he continues on, legs taking him to the classroom where it all started. It was a normal day, his teacher had asked a question, and the redhead was overjoyed to have an answer and to be the only one with one! But it…  
  
The scene flashes and changes, and Pico is left confused and disorientated, mind not being able to catch up with the switches. His eyes are shaky, the edges of his vision blur ever so slightly and he’s not sure what he’s seeing or if it’s even real or not. But it feels real, so real, he’s practically reliving it--- no, he _is_ reliving it. He hates this, it isn’t the first time, but this session is especially cruel. Is it because of BF? Ah, hell. Fuck that guy. Pico hates him for having to go through this. He curses himself for taking that “job”, and going to the train, seeing them and having to pretend they had no previous meeting and  
  
Thank god he has his UZI. It’s the only thing keeping him from breaking down. Or maybe he is and just isn’t aware, but now he’s inside the teacher’s lounge with all the explosives set by---

  
shoot shoot _shoot_ _shootshootshootshootshootsh_  
  
His mind is screaming at him, and he hears himself reciting those lines from the past like a script, he would laugh if he wasn’t in so much anguish. Why can’t he stop? Why can’t he just pass out? Even that would be better---but he feels his right arm jerk upwards, weapon pointed towards the...being that used to be a familiar face, but now was just warped and distorted.  
  
He pulls the trigger.  
  
The sounds of bullets ring in his ears several times, body shaking from the force, eyes squinting for precision as he aims. His feet are glued to that spot, and he’s forced to take part in this non stop shit show, just like every other time. It’s never ending, this cycle.  
  
It’s gone, he’s finished, it’s done.  
  
Pico drops to his knees, sparing only a few glances towards the mass of piled, repulsive, bodies covered in blood, all around. He should move, has to move, but he can’t will himself to. Feeling a pair of eyes on him, he flicks his own to identify the source, and they widen. His lips part slightly, but before he can say anything, a sharp blinding pain begins to pound at the back of his brain with such sheer force he has no choice but to shut his eyes with a hiss of pain. Bandaged hands automatically drop the gun and rush to feel aimlessly around his hair as if trying to find a way to pry the pain away.  
  
It’s dark. It’s cold.  
  
When the excruciating panging against his skull comes to a stop, his wet eyes flutter open, immediately met with the sorry sight of the monstrosity of his wrecked living quarters that don’t deserve to be called an apartment, at least, not anymore. Not after this. There are the engravings of bullet holes in the frames, and the gaudy wallpaper has begun to peel off further...shit. How’s he supposed to fix this? How’s he supposed to do anything at this point?  
  
“Damn it all to hell!!” The ginger cries out in frustration, banging his hands against the floor once more, one final time, before collapsing to his side. He lays there, biting his bottom lip as he feels his eyes water, hands clasping each other but still trembling pathetically.  
  
He doesn’t want to cry, but how can he help it? His mind is reeling from the flood of traumatic memories replayed in odd fashion just mere moments ago, his chest heaving and now his hands ache pitifully. He can feel the hot globs of tears drip down his face, gliding to the bottom before eventually dropping to the floor with tiny soft _plinks_.  
  
He lays there for a while, breathing finally calming down as the world fades to a deep black.

\-------------------------------------  
  
Warm sunlight begins to pour into the middle of the living room, signaling the start of a new day where a particular redhead is passed out, but not so much as before. Gray eyes peeking open, Pico sits up immediately, in a small panic, head whipping around searching for his trusty UZI, he feels vulnerable and unsafe without it! Wincing from the pain of his wounds and sore muscles, he lets out a small growl. In a somewhat crawl, he wriggles over to what is destined to be his beloved contraption and he snatches it quickly, holding it close to his chest for a moment. Oh. He comes to the realization that he is in fact, still shirtless. Evident by how cool the object feels, as much as to make him jolt and pull it away for a brief second. 

Damn, that must be why he still manages to shiver lightly with all this sun pooling in everywhere.  
  
With the shoddy illumination of the room, he can see the ruined contents clearer (not to mention no more teary blurred vision).  
“Ah, shit, shit, shit…” He groans, his long tapered fingers reaching up to pull at his orange hair, but they stop halfway, shaking.  
“What…” Pico blinks, before realizing the bandages and skin are stained with now dried blood. How fun. He grumbles, dragging his exhausted body across the floor to where his sweater was. It’s dirty, no wonder, but it still worsens the redhead’s mood. Skilled hands pick it up and throw it vaguely in the direction of the hamper for dirty laundry.  
  
He should take a shower. He feels all sweaty and grimey, how gross. Normally he wouldn’t mind, but it’d be way easier to wash the red liquid in the shower.  
Using the sides of his bed, Pico pulls himself to his knees, wobbly form standing now. The redhead stumbles over to the open closet, thumbing through the few hung up clean clothes, finally deciding on a top. Slinging it over his shoulder, he uses his free left hand---that wasn’t carrying the gun to fumble through some sections to pick out any pair of pants. Settling on the outfit, he hurries over to the bathroom and slams the door shut, running the water from the shower head so it heats quickly as he brushes his teeth in the limited time presented. Rushing to undress, he hops inside the more enclosed area, pulling the curtains close. Even though he’s the only one in the house, he always feels paranoid that someone else is there, watching his every move, and little things like this are always part of his routine.  
  
The warm water splashes over his numb body, raising the temperature so he wasn’t chilly anymore. It feels nice.  
  
Wait a minute...  
  
“AH!! WHAT THE FUCK!!” He practically jumps, why hadn’t he taken off the bandages around his knuckles? He’s such a dumbass, at least as of right now. Pico knows he’s pretty great.

Peeling the wet material now plastered to his skin, he pulls the sliding door to the side and swiftly throws it away before shutting the misty glass again.  
“Goddamn, why do we have blood anyway...” Pico mutters, letting the water hit his hands and clean them, not minding the stinging. It was a very faint dull pain. Like it wasn’t there to begin with...  
  
Scrubbing shampoo and conditioner into his hair speedily, he then moves to lather his sun kissed skin with soap. Why do showers seem so much longer than usual right now? Pico finishes not too long after, stepping outside the tiled segment and taking a few minutes to dry off.  
  
Pulling on the fresh clothes, he almost trips on the way to the door, leaving damp footsteps, trusty UZI on hand as expected.  
“Where…” He whispers absentmindedly to himself, scanning the table nearby but finding no luck. He proceeds to check the jacket on the floor, and to almost no surprise, he finds some spare cash stashed away in the inside hidden pocket. A grin flashes across the young man’s face, nodding to himself as he pulls his arms through the sleeves. Hand nested on the smooth brass of the doorknob, he hesitates for a moment, his last trip outdoors didn’t end so well---but he needs to fix the place up before anyone complains---about that, leading to a fine. He’d already been warned by the landlord, so Pico sucks in a deep breath before practically leaping outside. 

\---------------------------------------------

Flexing his hands a couple times, Pico walks down the sidewalk, heading towards the local noisy department store to buy a few things to fix up the...mess he had created back at his “house”. It’s a little quiet today, but perhaps that’s due to the early morning hours accompanied by the chilly air…  
  
His ears perk from the sound of rustling against leaves in, presumably, a bush nearby. His eyes flick over to gaze at the green abundance planted in the rectangular containers placed in front of the fence that separated the houses and road. Blinking, he rubs his eyes a couple of times but catches no sight of anything. Sighing, he continues forward, but it still nags at his mind. What was in there? Was someone hiding? The grip on his UZI is slightly tighter now, his fingers drumming against the metal in apprehension.  
  
“Fine,” He grits out through clenched teeth, annoyed at his brain once more---and himself for that matter, turning around to check the bush again but his body freezes at the sight of another life form. A furry creature has already stopped in its tracks, looking up at Pico with curious blue eyes.  
  
“Cat,” He mouths, still stuck in place, standing. What was he supposed to do? It isn’t going to...transform into some being that is to kill him, right? Cats are just...cats, right? He doesn’t know---but it’s...it’s so...cute. He guesses, is that the right word? He doesn’t know either, there’s a lot of things Pico doesn’t know, so he sticks with his gut instincts, and this time they were telling him to leave.  
  
But he finds himself taking a tiny step closer, body hovering in place as if trying to rethink the decision that _it_ had made without a prior asking to his main central control place, his brain. Although that area isn’t nearly as keen as it should be, it’s better than...whatever was going on right now. He’s supposed to leave, so why is he coming closer? Why is his left hand beginning to outstretch---as if he _actually_ wanted to interact with this cat, as if he wanted to pet it? And why isn’t it leaving? If it’s a normal cat, it would be scared of him, wouldn’t it? Oh, maybe it isn’t a normal cat then---maybe it’s something that was sent to do him harm like he had previously guessed!! Oh, shit, if that was the case then this is bad. Real bad. He feels like a soldier set in the front lines of battle, destined to die.  
  
He begins to lift the metal accompiant in his right hand, looking the feline directly in the eyes. Blue eyes that felt familiar in a way, they reminded him of someone.  
He hesitates, finger on the trigger, but he can’t bring himself to pull it just yet. His brows furrow as he tells himself it’s him or the cat, and he sure as hell isn’t going to be the one to go today. As his index is placed on the curved material, something sounds to his right and his eyes quickly shift to that direction.  
  
“Hey!! You’re that scary guy from the other day, right?”  
  
Oh. Oh, hell no.  
  
“Whatcha doing?” He tilts his head to the side like an animal, much akin to the cat not too far away from his red hightops, cyan hair falling in front of his face. He gently blows a puff of air outwards to move it so it no longer disrupts his vision.  
  
Pico freezes once more, as if on stage and given a cue.  
  
The cat looks up at the shorter male, meowing softly as it moves to rub the side of it’s head against his calf.  
“W---AWWWWW,” BF cooes, seemingly automatic as he reaches down to pet the pretty black fur. His voice meshes into a small chorus of peculiar, perhaps even pleasant---beeps. Or what Pico perceives as beeps, he wouldn’t know. It seems like the other is just participating in some foreign baby talk, and Pico can’t understand things like that and much less, this. It isn’t nice in the slightest, any previous contradicting notations from his mind are all wrong, completely and utterly wrong. Not that he’s saying that he _did_ have any contradicting notations that would have just happened to nestle in his brain, no way.  
  
After a generous session of petting, the other finally produces an intelligible sound, much to Pico’s surprise.  
“Soft,” The other remarks, turning his attention back to the redhead who he seems to have forgotten about completely, pretty eyes widening for a second before smiling sheepishly. Embarrassed, maybe. Well, who wouldn’t be? The guy had literally just spoken gibberish to a cat in a higher pitched voice---and his voice was much higher than usual as is---in front of someone else. If Pico compliments this guy again, even if just in his mind, he promises to pinch himself.  
  
Scratching the back of his neck with his hand, BF speaks again, but at this point it seems like a one-sided conversation.  
“So, gonna answer me, just maybe?”  
  
Pico hates him. But he answers anyway. He has to, right? Or maybe he doesn’t, but his mouth moves on it’s own without any approval, or even _asking_ of his central control system.  
  
“Obviously, I was just letting you have your moment with the cat earlier, since I’m so _generous_ ,” He sneers, “so, what? You think I’m scary? Think I’m gonna shoot you?” Pico is trying his hardest not to ask him what he really wants to ask. What he’s aching to ask, what’s been on his mind, why the other _has been_ on his mind. He doesn’t really want to know, or he’d like to think so, and that’s why a new priority has popped up into his mind like a bright red sign with the words blinking and flashing “LEAVE”.

  
“I-Im not scared at all! You wouldn’t shoot me, not even for all that money you were most likely offered, that’s a known fact by how you didn’t kill me on sight last night.” Oh, motherfucker. Smartass. How could he come to that conclusion? Pico wanted to kill him, hell, he would right now! Why’s he so sure that he won’t right now or ever? What if Pico just wanted a rap battle and being as magnificent as he is, would also fulfill BF’s wish that he must have had as soon as he laid eyes on Pico---to sing and even duet with Pico? Well, it actually makes him wonder why---  
“Uh-huh. What makes you think I won’t kill you right now?” Pico raises a brow, pointing the long cylinder barrel of the UZI up at BF, also moving to stand up to shift his weight to just his feet instead of calves as well as thighs. 

With the new alarming danger of a weapon, the cat swerved to hide behind the other man’s legs.  
“Hey, that tickles!” BF chuckles lightly, and Pico blinks. What’s going on? He should leave, right? He should leave. He has to leave. Obviously. That’s the only choice.  
  
“Also, you definitely won’t kill me because I’m just so handsome it’d be a waste!” Bf wears a stupidly smug face, grinning at Pico while leaning closer as if to rub it in. Who does he think he is? Pico is the one with the gun, he controls where this conversation goes, whether BF likes it or not.  
“H--” Pico snorts, “Handsome? You? Never,” He tilts the end of the gun up so it rested underneath the cyan-haired man’s chin, lifting it ever so slightly. He carefully examines BF’s features, as if trying to confirm his statement but he says no more about the topic. Says no more, but thinking is entirely different. Maybe. Well, whatever, it doesn’t matter! His light blue locks that looked fluffy even glowy, meant nothing to him, nothing at all, and certainly his deep ocean orbs had nothing to do with him either! Or the little smudge marks of sideways black lightning bolts against his cheeks---did he do those himself? Wait---he’s getting off-topic here.  
“You know,” He flicks his gray eyes, “I could always use the money,” The ginger whispers as a mock, looking into the other’s deep cerulean orbs for the briefest moment, before abruptly breaking eye contact and retracting his arm. BF gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing anxiously, nervous. But no need to be like that, for Pico had spared him, for now.  
  
The redhead has almost forgotten that he hates him. Almost. How could he forget what he’s done to him? Last night was awful, he’d hate for today to go just as bad, although to be fair it’s always bad. Would it help to kill him? But Pico can’t bring himself to muster more than just the harboring thought, he just can’t. Although BF made the option sound just so appealing.  
“Welllllll...Let’s just leave it at you aren’t! Anyway, where are you headed?” Pico inwardly groans and curses. Why wouldn’t he just leave him alone already? He’s holding a gun, doesn’t that just scream danger? Is this guy dumber than he initially thought?  
“Hm, Why are you up this early?” Pico jabs, brows furrowing as he crosses his arms, the thin material of his jacket feels cool to the touch. Responding to a question with a question, Socrates style. Or at least Pico thinks, he doesn’t know his philosophers, who even memorizes that kinda shit? Only nerds. And no, Pico is no nerd for using that tactic! It’s just a clever way to reply back with, he’ll give the creator props for that, but that only.  
“I asked first,” Of course he says something stupid like this, but thankfully Pico has the upperhand, but it’s to no groundbreaking realization, he’s no dumbass like this guy.  
“And who’s the one with the UZI?” He counters, the corners of his lips tugging upward in small triumph, himself not aware. BF huffs lightly, turning his head to the side slightly, looking displeased. Pico hums in satisfaction for a moment, happy to cause the other some annoyance since BF had caused the redhead so much pain, it was only fair. 

“...I’m out to get something to eat, now where are you going?” BF sighs, playing with the edges of his fingerless gloves, glancing up at Pico here and there. He guesses he has to answer now, much to his displeasure, he’d rather not, but with all the confidence he’s spouted it’s almost like he has no choice at all.  
“The department store,” Pico begrudgingly admits, scuffing the bottom of his shoe against the ground as he kicks it slightly a couple of times.  
“Sweet! I’ll go with you,” The redhead’s eye twitches. Hell nah. No way is Pico letting this happen---no way! He wasn’t going to spend time with the source of all his problems, with the person he despises. No way, no way in hell would he ever willingly go with him, he has every right to decline and BF has nothing to make Pico oblige!  
  
But before he knows it, he’s being dragged in some direction and the worst part is he can’t recognize anything. Shaking his head, he blinks a couple of times before his eyes widen and he looks down to where his hand is being pulled forward by another hand that just so happens to not belong to him, and instead is a part of a young man around his age that he hates. You get the memo...His gaze is fixated on the point where their fingers touch lightly, actual human touch.

  
  
Warm. It’s warm. 

Not in the way that’s uncomfortable, but in an almost pleasant way. He hasn’t been touched like this, well, to be honest, he doesn’t think ever since he was very young. His body practically craves the soft touches that BF gives him, and he sure to god hopes the other won’t squeeze his palm because Pico doesn’t know what’d he do if he did. He obviously doesn’t though, obviously won’t. Technically they’re holding hands, right? Pico doesn’t know, but he hates this feeling, and it’s in no way pleasant because it’s BF! Also he doesn’t think it would be pleasant with anyone else either.  
  
He jerks his bandaged hand away, leading his whole body to flop over and do a summersault before landing on his back due to how fast they, or more correctly, BF was running.

“Ack! Hey, you okay?” The blue-haired male stops and turns on his heel to glance at Pico, who was now sprawled across the sidewalk. His arm aches from landing on it, along with the side of his right hip. Maybe it’ll leave a bruise, Pico guesses it might be purple due to the force, but then again, it doesn’t hurt that much so maybe a light red?  
“Oh, I just realized, I don’t know your name,” BF outstretches his hand to Pico, and the ginger can see that the fingerless gloves that adorn it is quite worn out---presumably from being worn excessively and being a little old. Or at least it looks old. With that logic, he’d had to have it for a while, meaning that his hand size hasn’t changed---is that why his pale hand felt so light and tiny in Pico’s? Oh---he’s spaced out hasn’t he? Stuck in his own stupid confined prison of the mind.  
  
Pico slaps his hand away, getting up on his own with low grumbles, dusting his thin white jacket off that was now dirty(er). Glancing at his own hand once more, he flexes it into a fist and out, moving it up and down as if something foreign, like a new limb he’s trying to get accustomed to.  
“In case you didn’t know, I’m asking for it,” BF frowns, rubbing the side of his palm that got smacked.  
“If I give it to you, will you leave me alone?” Just say yes. He doesn’t care if he has to give the little shit his name---wait---shouldn’t he know his name? But it really does seem that he has...forgotten, to put it lightly. Well, Pico shouldn’t expect him to remember, but he was also super popular back then why wouldn’t he notice him? His two opposing ideas clash violently.  
“What!! Fine, but on the condition you give me your fiscoe tag! You have an account, right? You look like you do, you probably play games too!”  
Pico knows this is a bad idea. A dangerous life changer choice to be made. But Pico just wants to get away from him, he doesn’t like being reminded of what he remembers so clearly, but yet so blurry. He has enough of that at night when he is casually informed multiple times by his own body of his insomnia. Speaking of not having a good sleep schedule, come to think about it, doesn’t Pico look like absolute and utter shit right now? He must have dark circles around his eyes. If BF leaves him alone, it should lessen the impact of how bad it will be later, right? His reasoning is shaky, but it’s what he wants desperately.  
“Fuck you,” He hisses, “Pico.”  
“Pico? Is that your name?”  
“What do you think, dumbass?”

BF pouts.  
“Weird name,” He offers a bad defense, “and you haven’t forgotten already, have you?”  
  
“You think I’d forget about how you’re going to ruin my life more than you’ve already wrecked it?” Or so he wants to say, but keeps to himself, save for a few complaints under his breath followed by a string of low curses.  
  
“Give me your hand,”  
“Oh? Moving a bit fast mister mysterious,” BF teases, raising an eyebrow. Pico wants to punch him.  
“I’m not mysterious, if anyone is, it’s you,” He snarls, low enough that BF could hear if he really strained his ears, but he doesn’t, and that’s a good thing.  
“Now just give me your hand.”  
“You think I’m....what?” BF waits a few seconds, but gets no further response or details so he continues.  
“ And here, since you want it so badly,” He places his hand in Pico’s, he even squeezes it if Pico isn’t delusional---although he’s told he is---snickering lightly. The redhead is so close to shooting him. Deadly close.  
  
The feeling of their hands touching again so soon sends a shot of electricity down Pico’s spine, god, was he really that fucking touch starved? To let himself weaken in front of a puny little dude like BF? He tries to ignore the warm feeling that envelops and bubbles up in his chest, brows furrowing.  
  
Taking a marker out from his pocket, he scribbles, or more accurately, vandalizes the back of BF’s hand where a rectangle is cut in the fingerless gloves to allow skin to peek out, a stylistic choice, Pico assumes, but it’s just so unnecessary and useless. Is it supposed to look cool? Because it really doesn’t, if anything it just makes Pico want to---  
  
A small gasp is heard, and Pico almost smiles in satisfaction. Almost.  
“You’re welcome,” The redhead rolls his eyes impatiently, already on the move to get away, leg outstretched outwards, shifting his weight carefully.  
“You really had to write on my hand!” BF cries out in a semi-whine while Pico begins to pick up the pace to run to his apartment, not bothering to wave goodbye. He just didn’t ever want to see BF and his stupid face again.  
  
\--------------------------------------  
  
The door slams shut behind him as he rushes inside, falling to the floor as soon as it locks.  
“Fuck,” He mutters, burying his head in his hands. He’s happy to be by himself now, but he’d given the worst possible person a way to contact him just to get a little time alone by sacrificing what he thinks is the rest of his short remaining years.  
Now that he thinks about it, why hadn’t BF questioned the thought of someone sending him to kill him? Why wasn’t he afraid or have the mind set that it would be better just to avoid Pico at all costs since he’d let him off with a pathetic rap battle? Why did he approach him casually and talk to him as if Pico was someone he wanted to be friends with? That’s what makes it worse---it’d be easier if BF hated him as well, but it seemed that he didn’t and this resentment was one-sided. 

“I hate you,” Pico grumbles, covering his ears while he opens his mouth slowly, about to yell and scream in frustration---but at that exact moment his phone rings and he takes his sweet time unlocking his phone to check who it was.  
“Guy who ruined my life 2.” How insightful, past Pico.  
  
“S---”  
“I know you failed,” The redhead can hear tapping, a finger against some kind of box. Money, perhaps? But how does he know he failed? That’s a little strange, but he decides to keep his mouth shut for once. He knows this guy is bad news, that’s evident by how much money he’d been offered.  
“Meet me at 10 pm, I’ll send you the location. Don’t be late...we have important things to discuss,” It sounded like a threat, and Pico’s heard plenty. But this was the first time he shivered from one, the first time in a long while since he thought he might be in real danger.  
  
The air is still chilly, despite several hours passing whilst Pico thought about all the worst outcomes and possibilities. There’s a chance he might die today, should he text Nene and Darnell, finally answer and send his dying message? 

Nah.  
  
The TV is on, some random romcom is playing in the background and occasionally Pico will yell at the characters for being incredibly dumb and for the plot being as shitty as it is. 

The clock reads 9:45 pm, had that much time passed by already? What the fuck did he even do? Just sit around and wait for the inevitable doom to befall him? What kind of shitshow is this? Can’t be helped any longer though, so he checks his phone for the location and starts out the door, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the white jacket he still hasn’t changed out of.  
  
His black converse shoes tap against the concrete, rounding corners and taking lefts here, rights there. Crossing roads, waiting for lights to turn green, he continues onward, the cold nipping at his bare face. Maybe he should have worn a scarf. The wind bites at his fingers, still encompassed by the pockets of his windbreaker, meaning it was made of flimsy thin material that didn’t help one bit. Sighing, Pico finally found himself in the destined alleyway where he was to meet the hotshot on the phone.  
  
As soon as his frame stopped moving, he suddenly became aware of how all the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The goosebumps riddling his entire body. The petrifying presence behind him. Hastily whipping around, his gray orbs are met with a tall figure that seemed to loom completely over him. In this moment, he felt tiny, like a speck of dust under the carpet, like an atom out of the entire universe.  
  
He wore a slick black suit, simple, but tailored to absolute perfection. It shined effortlessly when the smallest amount of light hit the fabric, appearing as almost a light blue. His slacks were to be found with no creases, freshly ironed and of only the best material available. Gray hairs pushed into two tufts resembling a pair of horns sat atop his pale purple skin. Sullen black eyes with the exception of 2 red star shaped infernos pierced in Pico’s direction, and the red head felt like this man could see through him, see everything he’s desperately trying to hide, see every secret he’s buried, every lie he’s told, every kill he’s made, every bad thing he’s done.  
  
“Pico,” His voice slithered perturbedly, “It’s nice to see you...in person.” He was saying he looked like shit without saying it, Pico knew, he just knew.

He narrowed his eyes, body gathering itself into a defensive pose, mind yelling at him to get out of there, get out, leave, leave now, this is bad news, bad news, you’ll regret this, what you’ll hear, it won’t be good, not good at all.

“Cut to the chase, who _are_ you?” He prodded, jabbing his index finger out to point directly at the taller’s chest, although it was a little awkward due to the major height differences.  
“It does not concern you,” He talked calmly, not intimidated in the least. This made Pico even more ticked, hand curling into a fist. Raising his gun would not be a good decision though, his mind knows this, even his body. 

“What did you want to talk to me about, anyway?” Pico snarls, glaring up at the monstrous form of the perpetrator.

“About this,” He gestures with his hand, waving it about the air, and in perfect sync, a few people stepped into the dark alleyway carrying a suitcase and handing the tall man a picture. Flipping it around with his fingers, he showed Pico generously.  
  
The ginger looks at the photo then back to the man.  
“Go on,” He orders the goons as they place a black shut rectangular prism onto the floor, flicking the locks up and revealing the golden treasure inside.  
Pico’s eyes widened for a moment, a surplus of money---how rich was this guy? He looked up in disbelief, raising an eyebrow.

“I _didn’t_ kill him,” The redhead looked skeptical, crossing his arms, tapping his UZI against the edge of his own torso lightly.  
  
Dearest clicks his tongue, amused at Pico’s reaction.  
“A week.”

“What?”

“You heard me. A week, you get a week to kill him. I’ll bring you the reward personally once you do so, take it as a token of gratitude.”  
“A week?” Pico blinks, still not buying it. No way, does he really want BF dead that badly? What did he do that could possibly invoke the wrath of the god of the underworld? Well, he did kind of look like what Hades is depicted as, right? Pico doesn’t know, he never paid attention to trivial things like that.  
“Yes, don’t disappoint me. I’m sure you know what happens if you do.”  
Ah, shit. One by one the red-skinned supposed demons follow after the main man, filing one by one into the darkness. Pico doesn’t bother to check where they go, he just turns on his heel and begins to walk back home.  
  
He really didn’t need another problem.  
  
Should he kill BF? Pico had decided yesterday not to, but the money was tempting, and the blue-haired male wasn’t exactly the most charming person known to man, but Pico can’t quite wrap his head around the reason why he won’t kill him. It should be easy, just one swift movement of the finger, but he just can’t bring himself to do anymore than higher the gun. Why was that? Was it because Pico felt immensely guilty for the incident at that school? Was it because he didn’t exactly let _everyone_ die?  
  
He doesn’t know what to do, causing more painful thoughts to enter his already scarred brain, but thankfully he’s arrived at his apartment, or at least the door. Relaxing his muscles, he plops down to sit in front. Pulling a familiar box out of his pocket, he flicks it open and taps against the cardboard, pushing a cigarette onto the palm of his other hand. Replacing the container with a lighter, he spins his thumb against the gear and watches as a tiny flame emerges out of thin air and dances around for a few moments. Bringing the rolled object to his lips, he lights the end on fire, staring out at the empty streets below and dark sky. Feeling the nicotine enter his body, he sighs heavily, puffing out small bundles of smoke that floated away. He repeats the action a couple of times, relaxing slightly.  
It’s a bad habit, he knows.  
  
“A week, huh,”  
Pico wonders if he can will himself in that time, it shouldn’t be too hard, right?  
  
...Right?  
  
He’d think about it later.  
  
He shifts to stand up on his feet, snuffing the sparks out of the cigarette butt against the concrete before throwing it away. Twisting the doorknob, he enters the disaster of an apartment, glancing at the dull stars one final time before closing the wooden entryway. 

\---------------------------------------------

Pico lays on top his beloved black comforter, wrinkled with care, one hand curled into a half fist and covering his eyes from view, as if shielding them from light. His chest rises up and descends down in a slow rhythmic pattern, signifying that he is fast asleep for once in his life. The clock is ticking at a healthy pace in an attempt to tell Pico that it is 2:35 AM but the redhead is asleep and it does little to nothing except fill the silent room with soft clicks.  
  
His brain is a strange place, it’s own strange world.  
  
Tonight, it prepares a special theatrical assemblance for him, carefully woven from his thoughts during the day and also the ones that prod at the back of his mind with much annoyance---a hassle really, to hide them.

As if a roll of developed film is being placed in the projector, the scene--- or a movie of some sort, begins to play with only a slight delay in procedure.

It starts.  
  
He’s in a room, he’s unaware of what room it is, could be any room, but it has an uncanny resemblance to his room. The mess looks similar, but he can’t make out anything more than dull color blobs, only faint wisps of objects as well as hard-to-make-out silhouettes of white that seemed to be a couch and table. 

He is seated at said seating area, legs spread slightly---comfortably, hands fumbling with the modern device that seems to have everyone addicted, gun perched atop the sweater that warmed his chest. Pico continues clicking at the screen, thoughtfully thinking of the possible infinite outcomes this can horrifically morph into. 

It _is_ his brain, and with all the wack shit it makes him go through on a daily basis one can only imagine how his nighttime ordeals are.

“----?” A voice calls out of the dark abyss of background that his mind cannot conjure, seemingly only finding a few things important enough to detail and configure. 

“Who’s there?” Pico jumps forward to fix himself up into a less vulnerable position, snatching his gun and aiming it at where the door should be. 

It’s a little worrying, normally when someone talks in his dreams it’s...well, a flashback, or something awful. Normally, the latter works with the former to torture him effortlessly.

“Pico?” He blinks, brows furrowing. He can’t tell who it is---but then again he most definitely, most painfully, most excruciatingly---knows immediately, once his mind clears enough to let him hear more than just the tone.  
  
“Blue?” 

He whispers, a mere thought that had made itself instantly, slipping from his mind and falling out of his mouth like dewy raindrops. It’s a nickname, a stupid one, but clever, at least by how he, himself, percieves it. Everything he does is magnificent by all means so it can’t be less than adequate of course, therefore it must be clever. It _is_ a clever nickname, but Pico has never called the other that, never dared to, they were never close enough, not ever, and Pico didn’t bother. 

  
It had made itself known to him when he’d caught glimpse of the cyan-haired boy leaving class early one day, the day that the redhead had bothered to figure out why the floors seemed to squeak loudly. He had wondered if there were mice underneath, but no, it was just his loud ass shoes. But Pico had no right to say that, it had rained that morning and the ground outside was wet---it only made sense for the rugs meant for drying your shoes when you stepped inside the classroom to miss a few droplets. 

BF was interesting for that moment, only that moment, mind you, interesting enough for the popular Pico to give him a nickname that he swore to himself never to say in public. It was because of his hair, if it wasn’t obvious. He could have called him “Cyan”, but it didn’t have the same nice ring to it as “Blue” did. The ginger remembers trying the word out in a hushed whisper under his breath, how it felt when it rolled off his tongue. Don’t get him wrong, he’d obviously called out the name of that color before, but this was different. When something holds a different meaning, it sounds and feels different, you know? Or at least to Pico it does, and that’s why he’s in this situation now.  
  
“Pico! What’s up?” A young man emerges from the black surroundings from possibly nothing but thin air, or whatever surrounds and makes up the atmosphere of Pico dreamland, but you get the point. Hopefully. His cap is twisted backwards like a sad attempt to be cool, but it’s cute, in a weird little awkward dorky sorta way. His white hoodie holds a pixelated prohibition sign and seems to be a teensy bit big on the shorter, but maybe he just prefers it that way. Pico gets it, he doesn’t wear fitted clothing on a normal basis.  
  
Well, more importantly, BF is here. In his dreams. What the actual fuck. Why? Pico wants to ask himself, but he’ll probably get an unsatisfactory answer that he is, one, already aware of in the back of his mind, and two, not in need of. But it is a little strange, perhaps it’s because of their meeting earlier, although it seems much too early to dream about someone---what is the percentage of people dreaming about someone you haven’t seen in a long time who’d you’d most preferably like to think you’d absolutely forgotten? Pico isn’t sure he wants the answer.

“None of your fucking concern. Why are you here, anyway?” Pico scowls, “Here to screw up my life, even in the dream realm? You bastard.” He has no problem throwing insults, it’s not like he has to worry about him crying or anything, it is his dream and it should go how he wants it to, right? And speaking of it being a dream, this is technically a world where he doesn’t have---won’t kill BF. That’s an interesting thought to tease, Pico isn’t sure how’d he react, would he even talk to him? Probably not, he already has increased the intensity of the nightmares, it’d probably only get worse if he did. That gets his mind running, why isnt he having a nightmare right now? It’s very strange.

“I’m only here because you want me here, Pico, you know that,” He blinks. No way, Pico doesn’t want him here, he’s the last person he wants here, the last person he wants to see, dreams not being an exception. He scowls, moving to stand up and face BF, also enjoying the height difference as he felt more in control now. Dream BF could never stand a chance, hm, Pico wondered if killing him would make things better or worse. His right hand twitches with a familiar feeling of blood lust, but his left hand is holding it down without any prior indication of that motion, it’s a little strange. What’s wrong with his body nowadays? He feels like his mind and body aren’t syncing and listening to each other as they should, is this alright? Surely it would clear up soon.  
  
“Bullshit, we both know I don’t want to see you, and you don’t want to see me,” Pico glares, jabbing a finger out at BF’s chest, watching him take a step back in a hurry, almost slipping.  
“Are you sure about that?” Pico freezes. Was he really sure? No---why was he even listening to what BF had to say? Dream BF for that matter, he probably had worse things to say than the normal one! But he still considers the question, not knowing what to do as he stands there, staring.  
BF appears to be closer, is he walking towards him? Is he coming closer? No, Pico has a personal bubble, but his goddamn legs won’t move and his hands stay where they are, muscles opposed to the idea of raising his beloved UZI. Good for nothing arms. The redhead wants to move, wants to get out of there before BF does whatever he’s going to do, but some part of him, deep inside, locked away in a box to never be opened, wants to find out. It’s awful, but Pico drops his gun, his ears not picking up on any sound of clattering since his dream world seems to not have any floor, or maybe only at selective times.  
The cyan-haired male is now only a few inches away from Pico, close enough that the ginger can hear his soft breathing---can _feel_ it against his skin.  
A small shiver runs up his spine as his bottom lip trembles, scared and unsure, he’s never been in this situation before.  
  
Suddenly, he finds himself lifting his hand, but not to pick up his gun and shoot BF, to his own surprise and much heartbreak, but instead to pick up the side of the shorter’s cheek, lifting it up so they look directly into each other’s eyes.

  
He doesn’t know why he says what he says, or does what he does, but it happens. 

  
“I hate you,” He tells him, “You have ruined my life,” He’s wanted to tell him this ever since he saw him that morning. Pico leans in closer, just a bit closer.  
“Maybe,” BF whispers, blinking slowly enough that Pico takes notice of his long eyelashes. How...pretty. It’s just like that one time the redhead had seen BF wait by the big tree in front of the building after school, he remembers staring at him for a while as the light hit his hair with utter perfection and Pico thought he might as well have been a different person.  
  
Pretty? Wait---  
  
“You infuriate me,” His eyes trace over the other’s facial features, as if looking for something, as if copying it and burning the image into his brain.  
“I know,”  
“You’re not real,”  
“I know,”

“This is all my brain,”  
“...yes,”  
Pico gazes at BF with a hard look, dream BF, and a tiny heat crawls up to his cheeks as he finally takes in the reality of the situation. What the fuck was he doing? He quickly pushes BF away, and turns away, hands balled into fists as his sides. His sun kissed skin is painted a lovely red, was this what he wanted? Do dreams reflect what you want? Then why did he, why did it seem like he---ah, damn, Pico, what the fuck, man? You accidentally end up holding hands with a guy who you kind of know but it’s not really hand holding and you’re already dreaming about touching him more? Are you that pathetic and touch starved to think that way about a guy no less? Go touch some grass, he tells himself.  
  
Wait, sometimes dreams are random and don’t mean anything!! That’s what this is, must be, absolutely is most definitely, because Pico knows he’d never see BF in any other light than pure hatred. At the most they could be friends, although he despises the idea, and not whatever the fuck he just imagined right now.  
  
No. He was sure he was going to punch him, he was holding his chin in place so he wouldn’t move and dodge, wouldn’t evade the pain. He was distracting dream BF with an elaborate well planned operation that he most definitely had come up with on the spot with his genius brain.  
  
And then a sharp voice jolts him out of his thoughts.  
  
“Pico,” He says softly and sweetly, Pico’s body trembles, and his eyes begin to water just by the tone dream BF was giving him. It was just so kind and filled with empathy, it oozed of care,  
“you know it’s not your fault that they died, right?”  
  
He gasps, jolting upright, chest heaving, right hand pulling at the part of his sweater is placed in front of his beating heart. Beads of sweat roll down his forehead, and he is only a teensy bit relieved to know that his UZI is still in his left. Watery eyes blink a couple of times, making the liquid disappear.  
  
“W-what the fuck?”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhhhhh yeah ummm sorry for the inconsistency of the writing style, it's lterally just me switching from being in the mood to write an d not. also this is probably the only gay thing you'll get from pico for a while, since it's supposed to be a slow burn but i feel like it's progressing too fast ahhh i just reallu wnted to write that scene forgive me i swear i will make them fall in love agonizingly slow. It's just pico bein g touch staved bahhhh also because he had the tiniest crush on BF in their younger years that he was and is not aware of...  
> also NO, they are NOT EXES in this fic, I don't care that it's canon, this was published before and I'm not changning anything.  
> and i apologize for how long it took to write this lolll haha please forgive me  
> also in this pico has a little bit of internalized homophobia ahhh maybe i should have mentioned that earlier again,  
> ALSO THE FISCOE THING IS BASICALLY DISCORD IN THEIR WORLD ITS JUST AN INSIDE JOKE LMFAOO !!

**Author's Note:**

> whwhw how was it? [: i hope my writing has improved and hopefully i'll get better at writing them.  
> Ah, in case it wasn't clear, here is some background info:
> 
> Pico and BF went to the same school when they were younger. (Pico's school) The school shooting happens, and the whole Pico Cassandra fight happens as usual, but the thing is Pico didn't really talk to BF, but he knew who he was and thought he was dead, just like everyone else. He feels guilty about not being able to save them and stuff!! You'll get the sweet angst later.  
> BF seems to have forgot!! also pico had a tiny crush on BF back in their school days but he wasnt aware, and isnt aware right now either atm  
> Thanks for reading!!


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